19. Cuckoo
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CUCKOO
I wish it could be like this forever.
If it weren’t for Carly waking me up every morning with her incessant chatter, and Dean barging in wanting attention, and Dad giving me a million things to do, I’d snooze the whole day away.
The hours stretch on endlessly because even though things are apparently easing up, we’re still mostly encouraged to stay at home, and no one is back at school yet.
They’re not even sure if anyone is going to return this year at all. We really won’t get a last day.
It’s okay, though, because the nights make it all worth it. Being with Wren, Starling, Crow, and Goldie, it’s like the rest of the world truly has vanished. I don’t want the nights to end. Don’t want there to be signs of life encroaching into our time.
Not yet. There is still so much to do.
It’s my birthday today. Dad did his best, got me a card and a bunch of wilting carnations I know Jen at the shop must have given him for free.
In the card was a fiver and an “IOU” for a proper present.
The card was signed from all of them—Dad, Carly, Dean, and Mum—and seeing her there in Dad’s handwriting made my heart squeeze.
Carly made her gift, a playlist of all my favorite songs, and Dean gave me his favorite football shirt, which I promptly returned and asked for a hug instead and a demonstration of his best football tricks.
We had a takeaway pizza, two of them, and watched a film together. It was almost like the old days.
Eighteen, eighteen, eighteen. A real adult. Real responsibilities. Real life, hurtling toward me.
My backpack is full tonight. I lie awake, listening to Carly snore gently, until my phone tells me it’s near twelve.
The room is dark, but I’m used to this by now.
Carly has her sleep mask on, but she’s turned away anyway, facing the wall, cover hunched up so only her frizzy hair is visible.
I reach out a hand, tempted to smooth it down, give her a kiss, but refrain.
When Mum first died and Carly cried herself to sleep every night, I’d lie in her bed with her, cuddling her close, stroking her hair and kissing her head and promising everything would be alright, that I was here for her, crack jokes in her ear that would make her giggle through her snot and tears.
She’d wake up puffy faced with bloodshot eyes, but she’d always wake up in my arms and feel safe.
I put a couple of cushions under my quilt, just in case, but she sleeps through the night now. She says the sleep mask helps, gives her something to concentrate on instead of thinking about Mum. I slide on my leggings, put on my trainers, and ease out of our bedroom, leaving the door ajar.
Dad and Dean’s bedroom door is closed. The living room and kitchen are silent other than the whirring and occasional whine of the fridge. I use the dim light of my phone rather than its torch, feeling my way to the front door and tapping Mum’s bike handlebar for good luck before I leave.
Outside, the air is thick, muggy with the feel of an oncoming storm.
This worries me—we’ve been lucky with the weather so far—but thankfully when I reach the bottom of the tower block and head across the estate there is no rain, only the lasting heat from earlier in the day.
In the distance, I think I see a couple of other teenagers, some lads wearing hoodies huddled in a corner, but they don’t see me.
I slip by unnoticed, unnerved that more and more people are ignoring the rules, are invading our nights.
The others, to my surprise, didn’t immediately protest when I said I wanted to go back to Bishop’s House tonight for my birthday. Even though we’ve been avoiding it, focused instead on pursuing him on his runs. I was ready for an argument, to have to plead my case, but they said yes.
Perhaps they are going to be as on board with all my birthday plans.
Bishop’s House has six bedrooms; we counted them, one by one.
One of the doors is locked, and no matter what we do, we can’t budge it.
We joked about making it ours, but what if we actually did?
Set up permanently here, refused to leave.
We’re not going to let Hugo have our house.
No one else wants it. So what would be the harm?
“Cuckoo.” Crow has snuck up on me, making me jump. She’s good at that, able to blend in with her black jumper and jeans. She has a black bag too, which she sets down at her feet. Seeing me staring, she explains. “I’ve brought some snacks. What about you?”
“Same,” I lie. My backpack stays on my shoulders.
The conversation hits a lull. Unless we’re arguing, Crow and I can never seem to talk to each other properly.
There’s always this anticipation that one of us is going to say the wrong thing, set the other one off, because that’s what always happens.
But I think we both enjoy it, in a twisted way.
Debating. Trying to get one up on the other.
There’s a respect there, despite the friction.
And we know if it came to it, we’d be there for each other in an instant.
I wait patiently for her to wish me a happy birthday, even though it’s technically yesterday now, but it doesn’t happen.
I look at her. She is guarded, arms hugged across her chest. She has tied her hair back into a bun, leaving her face exposed, the resting frown and tightness of her jaw easy to see.
Crow worries me the most. She wants out more than the rest of us, can’t imagine a life for herself where she stays in one place. I don’t know what she thinks is so fascinating about somewhere else; I don’t know what’s so wrong about here.
“There’s Starling,” Crow says, unable to hide her relief.
Starling is dressed in a black dress with fishnets as if we’re heading to a rave. No bag with her, but she produces a packet of cigarettes from her jacket pocket as if it’s contraband. “Look what I swiped from my mum and dad.”
“Oh God, I draw the line at that,” Crow says. “Disgusting.”
“They smoke other stuff too,” Starling says. “Not that I’m supposed to know, but I’m not stupid. I’ll try and snag some if I can.”
Starling’s parents are alternative. That’s how Dad described them the one and only time he met them, picking me up from a sleepover at Starling’s house. They seem cool to me.
“Give us a lighter, then,” I say, and her face falls.
“Oh crap,” she says. “I forgot about that.”
“You’re not stupid, eh?” I say, laughing. “For God’s sake, Starling. Maybe next time!”
Even Crow grins, though maybe that’s more relief from her end.
“Oops,” Starling says. “Never mind. The thought was there.”
“Do you think your mum and dad would be cool with what you’re doing?” I ask, after she doesn’t seem to be saying happy birthday either. “All this sneaking out? Would they think it was, like, fostering your independence or something?”
“God, no,” Starling says. “They don’t let me have my phone when we’re eating. They can be surprisingly strict when they want to be.”
“My mum would worry more about the fine if we’re caught,” Crow says, then shakes her head, seemingly regretting speaking. “What about your dad, Cuckoo?”
“He’d go mad.” It’s true, but mainly he’d be disappointed.
He’d tell me what a stupid risk I’m taking, and hasn’t he been through enough already?
And if there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s his look of shame.
He wouldn’t even shout. He’d droop, he’d wonder where he went wrong, he’d blame himself.
“Especially after everything we’ve done. ”
I spot Wren making her way across the garden, grass up to her thighs.
“Hey, Wren!” I call. “What would your parents say if they found out about all this?”
She blinks, startled. “Why? Has something happened?”
“Nothing’s happened.” Honestly, she’s such a worrier. “We were just discussing it.”
“Well . . .” She frowns, concentrating. She’s taking this so seriously. She takes everything seriously. Or rather, like an affront to her, as if we’re trying to catch her out. “They’d kill me. I’d be absolutely murdered. Never allowed out again.”
I can believe that. Wren’s parents are weird.
When we went round her house, they never seemed comfortable with us being there.
Wren’s Mum was forever lurking in the background, placing coasters under our glasses and telling us to wash our hands.
Sometimes she looked at me, and I think she’d love to wipe me away like she does the tiniest of crumbs or spills.
“Cigarettes!” Wren says, spotting them in Starling’s hand. “I’ve brought a lighter. But I thought it was—”
“Why on earth have you brought a lighter?” I ask, stunned that Wren has one. “Did you know Starling was bringing cigarettes?”
“She’s always late!” Starling interrupts, staring daggers at Wren for some reason. “When is Goldie going to get here?”
“I’m here! Sorry!”
Goldie comes running toward us, holding a carrier bag. Her hair is loose, bouncing around her shoulders as she runs.
“You haven’t started without me, have you?” she gasps. “Sorry, I’m out of breath. I am not a runner like you, Cuckoo.”
“You were meant to be early,” Crow scolds. “So we could get set up.”
“I know, I said I was sorry!” She starts feeling around in the carrier bag, then meets my eye. “Cuckoo, stay out for a minute! The rest of us are going in.”
“What?” What is she playing at? I think. “I’m coming too, don’t be daft.”
“It’s a surprise!” she says. “Two minutes, alright? Then we’ll call you in.”
A surprise? Does this mean they haven’t forgotten my birthday after all?
“Well . . . alright,” I say.
They head through the broken window, and I hear them whispering and laughing, and something rustling around. I try not to peep, keep my gaze fixed on the garden, at the weeds all around. This place really would look beautiful if someone simply cared enough to fix it.
“Come in!” Goldie shouts after a short while.
I duck through the broken window, land with a short jump, and I’m instantly lost for words.